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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25178881">Headcanon: Accidental phone number acquisition</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen'>Anyawen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>James Bond (Craig movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>007 Fest 2020, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Headcanon, because q gave it to him, bond gets q's number, just not actually TO him, sorta - Freeform, team00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:06:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>469</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25178881</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Q did some hacking. Bond isn't fussed about it. Quite the opposite, actually.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Pre-00Q - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>73</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Headcanon: Accidental phone number acquisition</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It happens like this.</p><p>Bond is picking through the rubble at Skyfall. It’s his again, and he has to decide what to do with it. He’d been content to let the lodge sit, empty and ignored. Somehow, the ruins seem to require his active attention.</p><p>It might have something to do with her death, there, in the chapel, but he doesn’t probe the thought too closely. He just wanders through the ruins and considers his options. Kincade’s there somewhere, he knows, giving him space to pick through the debris.</p><p>He kicks at a charred beam and it rolls away, allowing a small mountain of fallen brick and plaster to shift and slide, raising an impressive cloud of dust.</p><p>He doesn’t blink fast enough. </p><p>He knows better than to rub his eyes, and stands still, tears streaming down his face and utterly failing to wash the grit loose.</p><p>Kincade drives him to the closest clinic. Bond, with a hand clapped loosely over his eye, is taken straight in. Things go a bit sideways when they ask for his NHS number. He’s got a head for numbers and training to remember details, but he hasn’t needed that number in literal decades. His various illnesses and injuries over the last 21 years have been treated by the medical services provided by the Navy and MI6. The clinic assures him they can look him up if he’ll just provide the name of his GP … which runs into the same issue.</p><p>The nurse who’s doing his intake paperwork huffs a bit and asks for his name and date of birth, then asks his address to confirm that she’s found the correct record. There’s a discrepancy, of course - MI6 had sold his flat, and he’d not bothered to update the NHS with his new information.</p><p>In a startling violation of privacy that Bond quite appreciates at the moment —his eye <i>hurts</i>— the nurse flips the screen around for him to verify the file is his. It is. Although …</p><p>It does contain a bit of information he was not expecting.</p><p>Bond muses on it while the doctor comes in to wash the particles from his eye and to be sure none have become embedded and require further treatment. He takes the antibiotic ointment they give him, thanks them, and leaves the clinic. Kincade takes him home. He shouldn’t drive —at least not tonight— so he stays. And thinks about the emergency contact info in his NHS file.</p><p>The last time he’d seen the form William Tanner had been listed as his contact, with a secondary contact for Justine McCreary, the head of MI6 medical. Those names had been replaced by another, with a phone number provided.</p><p>He’s smiling when he dials the number. It grows into a grin when a familiar tenor answers.</p><p>“Bond?”</p><p>“Hello, Q.”</p>
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